A Matter of Convenience
by wanderingtardisonbakerstreet
Summary: Sherlock's eyes flash with anger, the expression echoed in the doctor's face. They're close now, the air between them charged. There's a step between them neither is willing to take, not tonight. Perhaps not ever. — Sherlock can't get it in his head how much John truly worries about him. Johnlock. One shot. Rated M for heavy smut.


**My best friend (dancingtomumfordinmymindpalace) gave me the prompt for this, so she gets the credit for the inspiration. :)**

**Two things:**  
**a) This story is not betaed, so bear with me here.**  
**b) I'm from the US, so please excuse any inconsistencies with British vs American word usage.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. That honor goes to Sir ACD and Moftiss.**

* * *

John Watson takes pride in himself for being a patient, understanding man. It's helped him with relationships on an uncountable amount of times. But this...whatever sort of _relationship _he's found himself in this time always takes every ounce of composure he can muster. And today? Well today he's a mess, because standing in front of him is six feet of consulting detective dripping blood on the floorboards of 221B.

"What the _hell _were you thinking?" John shouts, even as the doctor side of him jumps into action.

Sherlock remains silent, holding his ever-present scarf against the gash in his shoulder as John pushes him into a kitchen chair.

When the doctor gently peels back the Belstaff and pulls the scarf from the wound, he sucks in a breath. "_Jesus_, Sherlock. This needs stitches."

The detective nods as if this only confirmed his earlier suspicions.

"You should have gone straight to the hospital with this." John begins bustling about the flat, gathering the necessary items to clean and stitch the wound. "What were you thinking?" he repeats, coming back to settle in a chair adjacent to Sherlock's.

"You're a doctor, John," the taller man says flatly.

John notes the slightly slumped posture of his friend. There is no way the deep cut in his shoulder isn't giving him a hell of a lot of pain. "Yes. Brilliant. But I don't really have the most desirable tools or location to take care of this." Carefully, he begins cleaning the wound. The detective's breath hitches, but otherwise he remains silent under John's hands. "Knife?"

Sherlock nods.

"Would he have gotten to you if I were there?"

"Probably not."

John hums disapprovingly. "You could have _died, _Sherlock. This man was extremely dangerous."

"Don't you think I knew that?" Sherlock snaps, piercing eyes boring into John's for the first time since he'd arrived back home.

John pauses in his ministrations to hold the heated eye contact. "I had to wonder when you stormed out of the flat _without me! _I had no idea where you had run off to._" _When he turns back to the problem at hand, he's perhaps a little rougher than he should be, as Sherlock flinches. "Lestrade called to tell me you had taken off immediately after they arrived, before the medics could look you over. You daft idiot, why didn't you let them take care of you?"

Sherlock doesn't respond, but stares out the dark window in the other room.

John sighs and continues caring for the madman in front of him.

oOo

The doctor in him had refused to allow the angry words to be thrown at Sherlock before his injury had been taken care of. Now, as they both sit in their chairs opposite one another, those words bubble back up in John's throat.

"I don't understand why you can't wait for the _five seconds _it takes to let me know you're heading out and where you're going. At _least _let me know where you're going, Sherlock! You could just text!" John is still somehow retaining the ability to keep his voice minimally controlled.

Sherlock has his head leaned back against his chair, his injury prohibiting him from assuming his usual prayer-like state of rest. "Those five seconds are important," he says, voice low.

"I think if it comes down to your life and catching a criminal—"

Sherlock's head suddenly snaps up. "The work always comes first, John. Always!" Fury boils somewhere in the opaline eyes glaring back at the doctor. "If I must put myself in danger to solve a case, I _will _do it!"

"That's insane, and you know it!" John shouts, throwing his hands up slightly in exasperation.

There's a split second where they glare at each other before Sherlock launches himself out of his chair and spins toward the window, dressing gown fluttering about his body. "It's how I've always done it. I don't see a need to change anything now."

"Bullshit!" John yells, shooting out of his chair. "That is complete and utter bullshit! There is _every need, _Sherlock! You have people who care about you, who don't want to see you dead. Isn't that reason enough?"

Sherlock turns on him. "Why does this matter so much to _you?" _he bellows, taking a step closer.

"Because I'm one of those people!"

They're close now, the air between them charged. There's a step between them neither is willing to take, not tonight. Perhaps not ever.

A clock somewhere on the streets of London chimes faintly, signaling the late hour and breaking the stillness between them.

"Sod this," John finally says, turning away. "I'm going to bed."

Sherlock remains in his place until he hears the door to John's bedroom slam shut so violently that it rattles the skull on the mantle.

* * *

Days pass with very little said. John goes to work, and Sherlock stays home. Experiments are dormant, and the Belstaff abides on its hook. The blog is left inactive, and the telly remains off.

On the fourth day, while John is still at work, Sherlock receives a text from Lestrade and leaves the flat without a second thought.

When he returns late that night, John is in his chair with a tumbler of whiskey held loosely in his fingertips, the bottle sitting on the floor beside him.

"Solved it, then?" John asks without looking up.

Sherlock retrieves another glass from the kitchen, then takes the bottle from the floor and pours himself a generous amount. "Yes."

The doctor stands and straightens his jumper. He hadn't bothered to change clothes when he got home to find Sherlock gone. "Good."

Sherlock is left again, this time sipping whiskey when he hears the door above click shut.

oOo

Sherlock wakes up with a splitting headache and finds a glass of water on his bedside table, along with a bottle of paracetamol.

John is already gone when he leaves the confines of his bedroom.

* * *

In retrospective, he should have known it would happen like this.

It's what a person gets for loving someone as madly neurotic as Sherlock Holmes. You can't have the good without the bad. Sometimes the bad outweighs the good, but the brilliant times always make it worth it in the end. He'd been given a second chance—a _fucking second chance_—with his flatmate, and God knows that's enough _good _to last a lifetime.

But he'd also been given a _fucking second chance _and he doesn't want Sherlock throwing that away by getting himself killed by a crazed petty thief in some back alley. Not after all they'd been through.

_You risk your life to prove you're clever._

And really, isn't that all it's ever going to be? Running about, dodging bullets, shooting a few himself? Won't it always be danger and games with Sherlock Holmes?

_I said dangerous..._

Yeah, yeah, yeah. So danger was what brought them together in the first place. Fine. That doesn't mean it has to be the thing that _keeps _them together.

John really doesn't want to watch Sherlock die again.

* * *

He wonders what happened to the doctor. He used to be so..._enthusiastic._ What happened to the John Watson that ran through the streets of London, chasing a cab with a person he barely knew, for the thrill of it?

Perhaps that John died the same day Moriarty did.

Why does that surprise him?

John still comes along for cases, when asked to. It's just this sudden obsession with insisting he know where his flatmate is at all times. What _is _that? And what does it mean?

Sentiment.

Could it get much messier?

A fall to save a life. Three lives, really, but only one that mattered. Only one that left him cold and empty and _lonely—_

Stop.

File away painful images and anything relating or pertaining to the word "lonely."

Wait, painful?

John had his usually _so very disciplined_ emotions bleeding all over the walls of self-preservation were rapidly being destroyed.

Perhaps a part of Sherlock died the same day as Moriarty, too.

* * *

There are words.

Not many of them, but enough to communicate when necessary.

* * *

John cooks dinner one evening and catches Sherlock watching him. The detective looks away briefly before returning the gaze.

They stay that way until the oven timer pulls John's attention back to the task at hand.

* * *

Sherlock composes.

John listens.

* * *

The third time Sherlock comes back from a case without John knowing, he passes out in a heap on the sofa from exhaustion before the doctor can say anything.

He wakes up twelve hours later and John is still there. It's the weekend. No work for him.

"Do you know I wait up for you?" John asks without looking up from the newspaper he's reading in his armchair.

Sherlock remains silently stretched out on the sofa as his gaze flickers over John.

"Every time you go out on one of your mad dashes without me, I wait until you get home before going up to bed." Now he does put down the paper, meeting the detective's sharp eyes. "I can't sleep without knowing you're okay."

Sherlock blinks. Raises his head. This is the most John has spoken past "Pass the knife" or "Where's the jam?" in several days.

"It's bloody ridiculous, and I don't know why I do it." John's gaze is intense, almost as if he's trying to channel his thoughts directly into the detective's brain.

But...what thoughts?

Sitting up, Sherlock studies his face and body language and draws up a blank. All their time together and for once he can't tell a thing about the man on the other side of the room.

And then it's as if a curtain drops and John's expression shifts. Pain? Worry? Desperation? ...Longing?

The detective has absolutely no idea what to do with any of these emotions flickering across his flatmate's face. In all honesty, they actually scare him for a minute.

"What...what?" Sherlock stammers. He never stammers. What's going on?

John doesn't move, doesn't even blink.

Sherlock shifts uneasily where he's seated, having absolutely no idea what's happening.

Is John angry? Why does he look sad? How can he not know why he does something? How can _Sherlock _not know why John does something?

But then John's moving. Sherlock is looking directly at him as he slowly makes his way across the room, but the visual input isn't computing with his swimming brain. It's as if the transport and the mind are completely disconnected.

What is John...?

The smaller man continues his journey until he's standing between Sherlock's legs, and, without hesitation, gently straddles the detective's hips.

Oh.

Hands. What does one do with their hands?

John's are on either side of his neck. This should be alarming. Threatening. Why isn't it?

He keeps his eyes latched with the doctor's deep indigo ones, looking for direction, for guidance.

Not once does it cross his mind to stop this. Not once does it even occur to him that he might not _want _this. Because he does. He suddenly, undeniably, _does._

John rests his forehead against Sherlock's before nuzzling his nose closer, and then their lips brush and Sherlock's mind...stops.

Just as abruptly, it roars to life and Sherlock knows exactly what to do with his hands and tunnels them into John's short hair at the nape of his neck. He tugs, and then their mouths are crushed together in a bruising, desperate kiss.

He knows what this is. This is sex. He's done it before—once. But it hadn't been like this. _Nothing _had _ever _been like this. There had been no kissing. Scientific observation didn't require the emotional connection kissing brings. It's new. He wants to take it further than just lips pressed against lips, but is that socially acceptable? Must one ask for permission before the process even begins?

John answers these questions as a warm tongue flickers out to brush against the seam of Sherlock's lips. The detective immediately opens his mouth and feels the first taste of John on his tongue.

Oh. That's...entirely different.

A rush of heat jolts through his body and suddenly it's too hot and there are too many clothes and not enough skin so he tugs on John's jumper...

"No, Sherlock," John whispers, lips still touching. "Not yet. Not yet. Slow down. There's time."

An embarrassing noise snakes out of Sherlock's throat in protest, but he lets John take control again.

Slowly, _achingly slow, _the doctor eases his way into Sherlock's mouth, but then pulls back out and instead takes the detective's full lower lip in between his own. His upper lip gets the same treatment and a small moan escapes Sherlock.

That shouldn't happen, should it? If he makes too much noise, will it scare John away?

But the sound must not have bothered the doctor, as his tongue once again invades Sherlock and gently encourages the detective's into action.

Sherlock mirrors John's movements, and leans against the back of the sofa, drawing the doctor with him. The new position causes John to shift in the taller man's lap and Sherlock breaks the kiss with a gasp.

"I..." he tries for words, but they had left as soon as John had touched him.

The shorter man smiles. "It's okay. Everything's fine."

Brow furrowed, Sherlock nods briefly.

John just watches him a moment, smile still in place, thumbs brushing soothing half-moons on the detective's cheekbones. Placing a slow, chaste kiss on those bow lips, he pulls back and stands up, holding out a hand. "Come on."

Sherlock takes it.

oOo

The detective allows himself to be lowered gently onto John's bed, the doctor's hand softly cupping the back of his head. Fingers with medical precision begin slipping buttons loose on his oxford shirt, and a warm mouth returns to his.

Sherlock reaches up into the kiss, completely entranced by the gradual progress on his shirt, when suddenly his mouth is abandoned. He opens his eyes in protest, then slams his head against the pillow as John's lips begin a wet assault against his neck.

"John..." he chokes out, hands searching for purchase against the soft sheets below him.

The doctor takes the closest one in his own and twines their fingers together, not pausing in his gentle attack against the smoothness of Sherlock's neck.

The detective becomes aware that his shirt has been left gaping open as the doctor's mouth travels lower until teeth graze a nipple. A startled cry jerks loose from Sherlock's throat and his body quakes. John smooths a hand through silky curls to sooth him.

"I know I said I don't know why I waited up for you," John says, skimming his lips across his chest to the other nipple, "but I think it had something to do with this."

"Sex?" Sherlock breathes, gripping the back of John's head.

The doctor chuckles, sending waves of warmth to the very reaches of the detective's nerve endings. "No." A tiny lick at the sensitive nub. "You. Me. Us."

"Oh," the lithe man sighs.

To this point, lower bodies had been happily avoided, both content to let John continue with his ministrations above. But when John shifts so there is a knee between Sherlock's thighs, the detective lets out a choked cry that shoots straight to John's groin.

There's a startling moment for Sherlock when John suddenly grips both his wrists and slams them above his head. Faces inches apart, John struggles to gain his control back as Sherlock tries to anticipate what happens next.

In the most lucid moment he's had since John came to him, Sherlock voices the only thought streaming through his mind and in front of his vision in bold italics. "I need you."

John's breath skitters across pale cheekbones. "You have me," he whispers.

Sherlock leans up as far as he can, given the current location of his hands. "In me."

Three heartbeats.

The amount of time it takes for John to make his decision.

Suddenly, the fact that they have all the time in the world doesn't seem to matter to the doctor as he desperately attacks the buttons on Sherlock's trousers. The detective manages to get John's belt unbuckled in the same amount of time it takes the smaller man to leave Sherlock's trousers unzipped and ready to be removed.

John shoves his hand below Sherlock's lower back and lifts him so he can get a grip on the fabric of his expensive trousers and pulls them off in one swift motion.

The detective gasps at the action and feels as though he's melting into the mattress beneath him. The buckle on John's belt bites into his hip bone as the doctor leans up to kiss him in a slow, intimate movement of lips, teeth, and tongues.

"You gorgeous, gorgeous man," John murmurs into the kiss.

Sherlock slips his hands up the expanse of John's chest, realizing he hasn't been granted with nearly as much skin to explore as John has. "You're wearing too many clothes," he complains.

Another chuckle tickles its way through John, reverberating in Sherlock's chest until they're both giggling for no other reason except that they're lying in bed together for the first time and there's too much fabric covering sweat-dampened skin.

"We can't giggle..." John tries to say, but Sherlock attacks his lips before he can finish.

John wriggles a bit and then Sherlock is rewarded with a trouser-free John Watson.

"You look ridiculous," Sherlock mutters, tugging at the doctor's jumper.

"You don't look much better," John says, and then has Sherlock's torso abruptly vertical and his shirt abandoned on the floor.

The detective gasps as their cocks rub harshly together through their pants and pulls at John's jumper until the shorter man lifts his arms and allows himself to be defrocked.

"How many layers do you need?" Sherlock says, frustrated as he stares at the button-down below the jumper.

John just grins and begins unbuttoning his own shirt, watching Sherlock watch him. For the detective's expression, a person would think John was giving him a strip tease. Once he has this shirt off, Sherlock all but rips the vest off of him, and then they're almost, _almost, _naked.

For a long moment, they grip each other, chests pressed together, and heave deep breaths. John is still straddling Sherlock, and the taller man has his lips pressed against his soldier's scar, breathing him in.

Inhale.

Exhale.

John is the first one to move, drawing Sherlock's face upward until their lips brush sweetly, _beautifully. _"Okay?"

There's hidden meaning behind that word and the detective knows it. "Immensely."

Sherlock is once again pushed gently back against the pillows, and then John's fingers are brushing insistently under the waistband of his pants. Sherlock arches into the touch and closes his eyes, aching to have John touching him, and the doctor slowly pulls the fabric off and tosses it aside. The cool air filling the bedroom moves against the violinist's heated, swollen skin and he whimpers.

When nothing else happens, Sherlock looks up to find John studying him, head to toe. Before the detective can say anything, the doctor is moving up and then there are fingers brushing the new, puckered scar on Sherlock's otherwise flawless skin.

"We both have them now," John says, almost sadly, placing a warm kiss over the angry skin. "I'm sorry I couldn't prevent the scar."

Shaking his head, Sherlock tangles his fingers with John's, not really knowing how to convince him that he doesn't mind. "You took a knife wound done in anger and stitched over it with care. You changed that scar from a mark of failure to a mark of John Watson, and it will always be there. Part of me."

John's deep blue irises stare into Sherlock's for a long moment, in wonder. "And people think you can't be romantic," he whispers.

Sherlock is terrified to see moisture gathering in the doctor's eyes and decides there is entirely too much _thinking _going on.

"John," he breathes. Nothing more needs to be said. That's the way things are with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Understanding doesn't always come in the form of verbal communication.

The doctor reaches over to the bedside table and pulls a tube out of the top drawer. "Have you ever bottomed?" he asks quietly, applying a generous amount of lube to his fingers.

Sherlock shakes his head. His one sexual encounter had consisted of him topping and barely reaching orgasm. There hadn't been any pleasure in it. He had wanted to be in control, then. But now, with John, he is more than willing to trust his friend to take care of him.

John lifts a long, pale limb over his good shoulder. "Do you want me to use a condom?"

"No," Sherlock says emphatically.

"Okay then."

And all thought flies out of Sherlock's brain as the doctor gently eases the first finger in, his free hand grazing up and down Sherlock's leg in a soothing gesture.

His muscles spasm and he gasps, trying to relax. And when he does...

Sherlock cries out as John nudges his prostate, arching off the bed. His voice stutters into an explicit moan and the doctor's finger becomes more insistent before he adds a second one.

He feels as if he's about to explode. Internally combust. Every time John's finger brushes that _one spot, _it's like an overwhelming wave of painful pleasure amidst the gradual stretching.

"John, I can't...I can't..." The detective is jerking his hips insistently, not sure how much more he can take. "John, please!"

But the doctor is ready and there. The first nudge of invasion into Sherlock's body almost makes him scream. It hurts, hurts, _hurts, _but it really, really, _doesn't. _

It takes a little time, but soon John is fully sheathed in the tight muscles of Sherlock's body. They both moan, and when Sherlock involuntarily bucks his hips, he lets out a rough sob.

"Okay?" John asks, breathing heavily.

"Okay!" Sherlock cries, thrusting hard into John.

The doctor gasps, then pulls the leg off of his shoulder and puts it behind him. Sherlock automatically wraps both legs firmly around John and they both groan with the new position.

"Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck," John grunts, fighting for his rapidly slipping control as he thrusts into Sherlock roughly, pulling almost completely out before pushing back in. He reaches a hand to pump Sherlock's cock, but the detective grips his wrist in a vise.

"No," Sherlock chokes out. "If you touch me, I'm going to come right now."

John groans again and shifts so he can hit Sherlock's prostate.

The detective screams.

John comes violently and abruptly, without warning, shouting Sherlock's name and spilling into him. He's blinded by the white that clouds his vision for a moment before he realizes Sherlock had come as well.

The lithe body beneath him is shuddering in the aftermath of an orgasm, chest sticky and eyes blown wide as he stares back at John. The reaching, reaching, reaching, _release _he had just felt was unlike any high he'd ever experienced.

"You came anyway," John pants, holding himself up with shaky limbs as he gently pulls out.

They burst into simultaneous giggles and Sherlock rests his forearm across his eyes.

"Shower?" John asks, still chuckling as he places a light kiss on the detective's lips.

Sherlock smiles back. "Please."

oOo

John blinks awake, staring at the ceiling. Sherlock's ceiling.

The night before rushes back and he grins.

After their shower, they'd naturally gravitated towards Sherlock's room and the much cleaner bed within.

Reaching a hand out, he's disappointed but not surprised to be met by cold sheets. He throws his legs off the bed and sits up, wincing at the slight aches in his body. He's getting too old for sex like that. Chuckling lightly, he decides the aches are worth it if there can be a repeat performance.

Padding silently into the sitting room, he realizes the flat is empty. He's disappointed, but again, not surprised. It would have been nice to have a lie-in with Sherlock, though.

He makes himself a cuppa and then heads upstairs to get dressed. He'll go for a walk. The morning air will be nice. Smiling smugly at the rumpled bed, he pulls a jumper over his head.

Just as he finishes the laces on his shoes, his phone buzzes with a text.

**Meeting Lestrade about a case at the Yard. Come, if convenient. SH**

John chuckles and goes to get his keys. This is the mad bastard's way of apologizing. Plans for a walk forgotten, he tucks his gun into the waist of his jeans. Time to play bodyguard.

Just as he steps out the door, his phone vibrates again.

**If inconvenient, come anyway. SH**


End file.
